Ever wonder why writers always seem a little distracted? Disconnected? Like they are on another planet? With a strange vocabulary and an odd twist on the mundane? It's because we're writers. Through a Writer's Eyes will help you see what we see and how we see and why we say what we do. Feel free to join the conversation. Let me know how you see what I see. Thanks for stopping by! Enjoy the journey!

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Dreamy St. Petersburg

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it.... Emily Bronte

The Dream of St. Petersburgh

I dreamt I took a train to an
adventure. My mind was filled with all the possibilities and `'what-ifs" I
had always imagined. I expected to see beautiful things, hear musical
voices, see colors and textures and life I had not known before.

The train in my dream rushed through
the darkness with only the occasional disturbance.

I awoke to find myself there, at that
place, the place I had dreamed of! Surrounded by history and meaning, I
walked behind my knowledgeable guide. She told me the story of her city.
"This is where Alexander I lived and this was Catherine's palace.
We have Nicholas's statute over here and the lighthouse over there."
We wound our way through unfamiliar comfortable streets filled with the
voices of life.

The Fortress of Peter and Paul stands
chief among the buildings in this dream. Walking through the walled city
I found myself taking pictures and wondering about their story. Who lived
here? Who walked here? Who rested in the safety of the mamoth
walls? And Why? What did they hide from? I could almost feel
their sense of safety, hear their hushed whispers.

Sometimes it rained - hard, chilly
raindrops forcing up the umbrellas and drawing strangers closer together.
Unexpectedly, around another corner, the sun would shine and the skies
would clear. Equally by turns it was cool and warm. A day which
couldn't make up its mind what kind of day it wanted to be.

Still we walked. Sometimes
strolling, sometimes with purpose, sometimes with crowds, sometimes without.
Always surrounded by the story.

We happened on a parade at one point.
WWII veterans and their families holding pictures of those lost in the
Great War. This city felt the cost of the war in devastating fashion.
The survivors are grateful for those who paid the price to hold the land.
They celebrate with intense pride. The uniforms, the flowers, the
pictures, the stories flowed through the street with the rain playing softly
overhead.

We stopped for coffee at another
point. Like Goldilocks we tried first this spot then that before we found
a place that was just right. Hot coffee, sweet treats, gentle
conversation refreshed us both.

As we exited the last Metro I caught
sight of a painting tossed on the street. In the broken fragment I could
see perfect blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds. A building grew in
the painting it's rounded turret strutting its strength against nature.
"I'm still here!" It shouted behind the billboard tacked
to its face. "Don't let the modern facade fool you. I have
watched the gate for centuries. I saw Napoleon and Hitler trying to take
me away. Neither Soviet rule nor winter's blizzard could change my stand.
You may paint me with advertisements or bathe my stone in whitewash.
The fact remains. I am still here."

As I lay my head down at the end of
the day, I realized it was not a dream at all. I really did come to St.
Petersburg. I really did see, hear, taste, feel these things. And
another day awaits.

I thought I was awake, but found myself still in the dream.

Another swirl of color, sound and smells swished about
me. The sun was out now and shining
brightly. Golden domes atop fortress
buildings glimmered in the horizon as I walked a new route.

“There is Bro. Turner’s favorite bookstore.” “There is my favorite palace.” “There is St. Isaac’s Cathedral.” Over and over the phrases of my friend
crowded into my hearing as she tried to show me all of the best and share with
me her abundant knowledge.

Passing The Church of the Spilled Blood, a remarkable piece
of architecture, I was caught by the sound of a quiet flute dancing among the
trees. Wearing black and strolling
carelessly, the flutist interacted with his audience. I drank in the peaceful sounds a moment
before continuing.

“We were here yesterday.
Remember when we crossed the bridge after the parade? That’s where we were.” My friend stood pointing and, to my surprise,
I did remember. The bridge with the four
horses prancing above beckoned us to go on.

Another dash of music surprised me upon a wall outside of a
hotel. I didn’t know the song, but gave
it a passing glance to honor its existence.

Through this passage and that, winding behind and between
the ancient buildings, we finally erupted into a bright square. “Now we’re here. There is The Hermitage.”

Ah! The
Hermitage! Frosted in mint and cream,
the elegance was almost more than one could fathom. To our right a spare, modernist, clean-lined
building humbly held court. Court isn’t
all that it held, however. It also held
a Kandinsky Exhibit. Up a glass staircase, through a winding passageway and
then there it was! The very thing I
wished to see.

Many years ago I had received a print of the Kandinsky
painting “Winter Landscape” which has hung in some manner of honor or another
ever since. The colors carried a promise
for me that someday I would see the real painting, I would stand before
it. And now, here in my dream, I
stood.

“Thanks, God,” I whispered.

But Kandinsky wasn’t the only artist present in this
dream! We gazed at Da Vinci, danced with
Matisse, rested with Monet, laughed with Van Gogh and a host of many others
inside The Hermitage. Wandering through
the labyrinth of rooms my heart was overwhelmed with the beauty and contrasts
of expression.

Many tired hours later we were home again. The welcoming apartment with its fresh baked
chicken covered with tomatoes and mozzarella opened its doors. Wearily we rested. Sharing again our lives and finding so many
commonalities, so many subtle differences.
Born on opposite sides of the Cold War we found kindred spirits.

Sunday dawned early, but not early enough and we quickly
made our way to the train which would return me to Moscow. Brisk steps, brisk breeze and brisk good-byes
jumbled together on the platform of the waiting train. Out of breath, I sat in my seat, closed my
eyes and slept.

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About Me

I am a writer. It's intrinsic to my existence. I write because I can't not write. I love Jesus. I would say I'm sorry if that offends you, but I'm not. I am a follower of Christ trying to live like Him Who has saved me. I won't apologize for that either. I love to laugh and sing and read and watch people smile. I have two amazing sons, one amazing daughter-in-love and four incredible grandchildren. I am a very rich woman.